


Fix

by Toft



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Consent Issues, Consent Play, Dubious Consent, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Rape Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-12
Updated: 2008-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-19 22:26:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toft/pseuds/Toft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's in a fix. ***NOTE: I have chosen not to use the AO3 warnings because none of them fit exactly, but please read warnings in my notes at the beginning if you are concerned about warnings.***</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fix

**Author's Note:**

> [Original LJ post](http://toft-froggy.livejournal.com/315153.html)
> 
> .
> 
> [There is a podfic of this story read by kHo available on the audiofic archive](http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/fix-0).
> 
> WARNINGS NOTE: I've tagged this 'consent play', 'consent issues' and 'dubcon' in lieu of giving the (inaccurate, in my view) archive warning of rape/dubcon. However, a lot of the behaviour in this fic as regards sexual consent is ambiguous. Please let me know if you think I could give a more useful or accurate warning here.

The door hisses open, _finally_ , and Rodney bursts in, red and sweating, looking furious.

" _What_? I swear to god, if you aren’t actually dying, I’ll kill you myself. You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

A light flashes on the console in front of John and another cycle starts, slow and inexorable, and he can’t stay standing, locks his arms to hold his weight against the console and grits his teeth so hard his jaw hurts, because if he makes a noise, McKay’ll know. His thighs are aching, his back is stiff from being arched over, and his shirt and pants are drenched with sweat. McKay shuts up abruptly, and John takes a deep, steadying breath, another, but can’t look at him. He pretty much wants to die.

"Don’t c- go around the counter," he finally manages, when he thinks he’s got his voice under control. "Just – shut it down."

"Shut what down?"

" _This_ ," John snarls, and hates it when his voice cracks. The insides of the console - receptacle - _thing_ start to pulsate more insistently around him again and his whole body shudders, his eyes falling closed despite himself. Jesus, oh, Jesus, this is going to kill him. Rodney’s putting a hand to his earpiece, eyes big and mouth tense, about to call Carson, John _knows_. "Don’t you fucking call anyone," he gasps, waves of pleasure rolling up his spine – but not _enough_ , fuck, not nearly enough - prompting his stupid damn body to try thrusting again, and his thighs hurt enough already. "Just get me out of here."

*

Sheppard’s face is bright pink, his hair is sticking to his forehead. His neck is arched over and his head hanging forward between his arms where he’s holding himself up, keeping the console between himself and Rodney like a shield. His face is taut and he’s sucking in breaths in that barely-controlled way that Rodney associates with gunshot wounds, but, "Don’t you fucking call anyone," he gasps, and now Rodney’s beginning to freak out.

"Don’t be an idiot," he snaps, and starts to stride towards John. Then suddenly his brain, which has learned by now to follow logic to its conclusion, even when the conclusion conflicts with what any rational person would consider likely, throws up a red flag. He’s learned to trust his instincts on these things, so he freezes.

He thinks: he’s seen Sheppard in pain much more often than he likes to think about, and there’s something different here.  
He thinks: Sheppard’s gritted-out insistence that he come alone plus the flutter of John’s eyelashes against his sweaty face plus the way he’s almost imperceptibly rocking on the balls of his feet, possibly equals something that is the opposite of agony.  
He thinks: John looks like – he looks like he’s getting a blowjob. Like he’s so close to coming it’s hurting.

John husks, " _Rodney_ ," and Rodney swallows and stares as John draws his lips back from his teeth and drops his head lower over the console, his whole body shaking for a few long, drawn-out seconds before he makes a noise that sounds like it’s been ripped from him. Rodney’s drifting forward without any real awareness of it, momentarily transfixed, but then John looks up through his eyelashes and shoots him a look that’s more than murderous, almost _crazed_.

"Make it stop," John whispers. Rodney mentally pinches himself, shoves everything else out of his mind. He indexes the possibilities – they’re in an abandoned lab of some sort, marked U on their map for Unidentified or Useless; they couldn’t work out what that console did, and it's the only thing in the room, which has walls even barer than the usual Atlantean minimalism, almost clinical. There are some winking lights on Sheppard’s side of the console, flashing in a slow sequence between the splayed fingers of his left hand and his right, over and over, like a computer system start-up bar. There are no controls that Rodney can see. He listens for the hum of a field of some sort, but can’t hear it, or feel the strange, sticky sensation of electricity on his skin and hair; he can’t smell anything in the air; there are no obvious alien aphrodisiacs lying around, used needles or empty pill bottles. As he thinks through all this, he’s already rummaging in his kit for diagnostic equipment more sophisticated than his nose. While he runs the usual tests, he checks the city grid readout. Mild power drain, level two – whatever it is, it’s barely eating enough power to clean a pair of jeans. But - hm, that's interesting.

Sheppard rasps, "What's interesting?" and Rodney snaps out of it, realizes he’s been babbling. Sheppard’s breathing is short and shallow now, his knuckles white on the console top. His whole body is practically vibrating. God, Rodney’s a horrible person, and he _wants_ to look away, knows it would be the decent thing to do, but he can’t stop staring, taking in every micro-second, his mind click click clicking like a shutter, storing spools of film for him to replay over and over. Rodney’s got a photographic memory, and he’s got a whole separate darkroom in there for Sheppard. He wrenches his eyes away in gradual steps from John’s face to Sheppard’s hands to the console, then to the floor.

"There's a link open to the database," he says, and swallows. "It looks like it's waiting to upload something." John’s head lolls forward and he sighs again, responding to whatever’s happening to him. Jesus, Rodney doesn’t know if John can even hear him. "I can’t do anything from here. _Sheppard_. I have to come round there."

"Don’t touch me," Sheppard says, shutting his eyes tight. Another spasm hits him, his face goes tight and focused, and for a long, long second Rodney can only stare at him and ache. Then he says in a low, shaky voice, not looking up from the console, "Don’t touch me, don’t come near me, don’t touch me, or I swear, McKay -"

"Yes, yes, all right, just – just, wait, we’ll have you out of here in no time, Colonel, just hold on a little longer," Rodney says, trying to soothe him as he makes a wide circle, "If you just, um, step away from the -"

*

Yeah, isn’t that a fucking joke, but if Rodney laughs, John thinks he might kill him.

"Well," Rodney says, and clears his throat. "This is different."

"Tell me about it," John croaks. His throat is burning, it’s so dry. He tries to think. Jesus. "Water. Need some water. Put it. Where I can reach."

He gets a glimpse of Rodney’s weirdly blank face as he rummages in his bag, then reaches over to slide the canteen along the console, careful not to touch John, but still too close. John can smell him. He grabs the water and almost spills it everywhere trying to get it open, but finally he manages to get some into his mouth, shaking so hard half of it spills down his chin and trickles down his neck to soak his t-shirt even more. It stops the burning enough that he can think a little better, though.

"Tell me you didn’t…stick yourself in that thing," Rodney says. He sounds a little strangled, but actually, John thinks with a certain amount of hysteria, he's being pretty restrained.

"I don’t - even know - how I _got_ here," he grits out as the slick, metallic softness around his cock ripples over the shaft before sucking in around the cockhead again, light as a hot breeze, leaving it sensitized and totally dry, although he’s got to be leaking like crazy. He’s been looking at the lights for so long that they’re blurring in his eyes, now, and he can see them winking across his vision in red and brown when he looks away. _Why are you causing me so much trouble?_ the machine's radiating at him. In his mind it sounds like that old British guy in the Bond movies. _Do get on with it, double-oh-seven_. He wonders if he's going insane. "McKay, I swear to god -"

"Yes, yes, _thinking_. What are you – I mean, what’s it – look, I know this is a rather delicate situation, but I really can’t, without data,"

John closes his eyes and wills himself to talk. Tells himself, it’s just Rodney. Diagnostics. "It’s sucking me off."

The water hasn’t made his voice sound any better.

"Yeah, I got that far, thanks," Rodney says, and the sarcasm would make John feel better, if Rodney hadn’t gulped audibly at the end of it. "Have you, um -"

"No."

" _No?_ "

*

Rodney doesn’t know where to look, he feels claustrophobic and overheated and sick with want and self-disgust, because John’s in _pain_ , he’s, he’s being _molested_ by an over-enthusiastic data-collection facility, and it’s still all he can do to pinch his own thigh through his pants and just – just hold still. Not breathe in the smell of sweat and sex. Not look except where he has to. It’s so unbelievably, ludicrously unfair that it’s almost funny, that all of Rodney’s deepest, darkest fantasies are right there in front of him and his job is to make them go away. John’s bent over the console with his pants shoved down around his thighs, strap of his thigh holster a thick band of black against bare skin where it’s ridden up over the top of his pants at the side, boxers apparently shoved further down, or maybe he’s not wearing underwear at all. Rodney doesn’t look at the place where John’s pressed flush against the console, the way the muscles at the bare top of his ass have got to be flexing with every incremental thrust and – ah, right, yes, that’s clearly the problem, right there.

"It won’t _let_ me," John croaks. He’s got his eyes squeezed shut, and sounds like it hurts for him to force the words out. His face has gone brick red, now. "It’s – Jesus. Jesus. I can’t do this."

His breathing’s gone fast and hitching, and Rodney, horrified, thinks for a second that he’s going to _cry_ , and he’s seriously considering calling Carson, whatever John says, until he thinks about the way Carson would go bright red and stammer and look anywhere but John and inch towards him like he was infectious. Now, looking at the way John’s curled miserably in on himself over the console, the thought makes Rodney want to hit something. So, no. Not Carson.

Then he thinks: Sheppard called _him_ , which means that he’s not just the only one who can fix this, he’s the only one John _wants_ to fix this. The thought makes his stomach flip, but he overrides that, because of course Sheppard called him and no one else. Rodney’s the only one who can fix everything, and besides, they’re – friends.  
He thinks: The problem here is that there are two pieces of machinery, and one of them is not doing what it should. Sheppard is that piece.  
He thinks: Rodney has to fix this, before the machine fixes Sheppard.  
He thinks: That is really not funny.

"Okay," he snaps, and marches over to key in the combination to lock the door. John looks up, startled. "I can’t get you out of here if I don’t know what the problem is, so you’re going to answer my questions with yes or no answers, okay? One: your dick" (he’s proud that he doesn’t trip up on that) "is stuck in there and you can’t pull it out. Am I right?"

John’s head bows.

" _Yes or no_?" Rodney snaps, much sharper than he means to, because he’s tired and he’s hungry and he’s _hungry_ and the universe has reached whole new levels of unfairness to him today. John’s head whips up, meeting his eyes dead-on for the first time since Rodney entered the room, and Rodney feels an unexpected surge of something that feels much more dangerous than triumph.

John snarls at him, "Yes."

Rodney looks at John steadily, holding his gaze. That way it’s easier to keep his voice level, too. He’s a mechanic.

"You can’t come because you can’t get any friction."

"Right."

"I'm pretty sure it's waiting for a sample of your genetic material to upload into the database. I have no idea why it's chosen this, um, method of collection, but I think - I think you need to come before it lets you go."

John’s eyes flutter closed for a second, obviously reacting to something the machine’s doing to him, and his breath hitches. Rodney stares, mesmerized. "Yeah," John says, after a few seconds. The thought comes to Rodney, unbidden, _you could do anything to him_. He’s built bombs that scared him less than this.

"What’s the last thing you remember, before you got here?"

Sweat’s beading on John’s forehead, and that little wrinkle appears between his eyebrows as he tries to concentrate. Rodney can see how much effort it’s taking, and he aches in sympathy, partly. John licks his lips. "In my quarters."

"So you just, what, sleepwalked down here? Do you think something was controlling you?"

"The last thing I remember is brushing my teeth, okay? Then I was here."

"How long have you been here?"

John laughs soundlessly, mirthlessly. "Long time."

Heat hits Rodney a blow to the solar plexus. God.

"I’m assuming you’ve tried thinking it off?"

John manages a pretty convincing glare, given the circumstances, and Rodney clears his throat. "Right, yes. Well. I’m going to have to co- go over there and examine the, ah. The console."

John tenses up again all over, and he’s shaking his head, but Rodney ignores him totally.

*

What – shit, _shit_ , McKay’s coming closer, and John’s not ready for the way he can feel the heat coming off Rodney’s body, or the way his brain unhelpfully tells him, hey, Rodney smells and looks _really fucking good_ , and how about that? He’s got a gun, he thinks suddenly. He’d forgotten that. For a moment he just stares at his fingers on the console, unable to get past that first step, what with the world’s slowest blow-job tearing at his thought processes. He’s got a gun, he’s got a gun, with a gun he could -

He fumbles it out of the holster, drops it on the floor and shoves it with his foot so it slides across the floor, well out of his reach, because no, no, worst idea ever in the world, and he’s not crazy enough to try and put a bullet in the console yet, but he’s afraid he might be soon. Rodney grabs his shoulder, probably wondering what the hell he’s doing, and John isn’t ready for it, shoves back and twists as much as he can to shake him off. Rodney doesn’t let go, and John’s body is screaming _yes yes yes_ and _no no no_ at the same time, and it _hurts_. Then it stops. Rodney’s backed away. John licks his bleeding lip.

"What are you doing?" Rodney says, from somewhere behind him. He sounds terrified. John thinks, _finally_. "Sheppard. What did you think I was going to - I wouldn't use _that_. Are you insane?"

When he gets it, John almost laughs again, but his stomach muscles are hurting too much.

"Sheppard. John." Rodney says again behind him, soft. John can’t see him, and it doesn’t sound like him, so for a minute he can almost pretend it’s someone else, someone he doesn’t know. It lets him breathe a little better. "It’s – it’s going to be okay. It’s going to be - fine."

John’s ridden a nuclear bomb into certain death, he’s been tortured by the Wraith, but now he’s got his dick in an electronic vise, his balls pressed up against a cold, alien surface, and he’s finding out what it feels like to lose your mind with fear. That, and he’s been on the edge of coming for nearly fifty minutes.

"There are three options," Rodney’s saying, his voice only shaking a little, and John already knows what they all are. He shuts his eyes and waits.

*

"One," (the metallic sheen of the gun still there in the corner of his eye, and they’ve both killed people, but Rodney’s never – he can’t even _think_ what John was – he’s not going to think about it, he’s just not, but he is, he’s thinking about it) "I call Zelenka and tell him to power down this part of the city." John’s already shaking his head, his face turned away and unreadable, when Rodney goes on, "yes, yes, and Carson’s got two people on life support, so we’d have questions and backup generators, so that’s Plan C. Two, I open up that console – while it’s live and online – and try to shut it down. With your dick inside it. I don’t need to tell you that that’s a really, really bad idea."

John's shudders visibly, and Rodney has to clench his fists tight so he doesn’t touch him.

"Three."

He really, really can’t believe this. Of all the things – of all the _people_ – it’s almost funny, except Rodney’s right here, and he’s actually doing this. He tells himself he’s thought it through, there are no other options, but he’s so turned on he can’t think straight, and he must have missed one, surely. This can’t be something he has to do.

"Three?"

Rodney clears his throat desperately. "I, um, help you out."

"What?"

"I – help – you – out. Help you, ah, help you come. The most obvious solution is that Atlantis brought you down here to get what it wanted from you, and I have no idea why it would need your s-semen, but this would not be the first time that the Ancients were completely _fucked up_ , and, and maybe this thing was designed for Ancients with semi-ascended penises or something, but you’re standing right in front of the access panel anyway and I really can’t think of anything else. I’m sorry, I’m really really -"

"McKay!"

"I can’t work on the console, so I have to work on _you_ , okay? That just seems to be – the safest way."

He has to stop there, because he’s not even convincing himself. There’s nothing safe about this, nothing. His eyes are drawn, inexorably, to the small of John’s back, bare and vulnerable, and right there. He could draw a line on it with his finger.

His mouth feels slow, and he makes it shape the word, "Okay?"

"Just." John takes a shaky breath. "Do what you have to do."

Maybe the rushing feeling is relief, but it makes Rodney feel cold all over, and with the same weird sense of disengagement he watches as his hand goes to John’s back and his index finger touches the very top of the cleft of John’s ass, and draws a small circle there on John’s pale, sweaty skin. John goes rigid and hisses through his teeth.

"It’s all right," Rodney says woodenly, "it’s all right. This isn’t what I want," and puts his hands on John like he’s going to die without it.

*

Shit, shit, Jesus, it’s even worse than he imagined it. With the first brush of Rodney’s fingers on his skin, which is sensitized by now beyond all reasonable limits, John _whines_ and tries to thrust into the unyielding pulse of the machine.

"It’s all right," Rodney’s saying, over and over, and it is really not fucking all right, but then Rodney pulls him into a hug from behind, clumsy and heavy and _human_ , and it’s such a relief to be touched by something more substantial than electricity that it makes John’s eyes sting, and he arches back into Rodney without any volition on his part. When John’s legs start to give way again, Rodney hooks his arms under John’s and holds him up, pressing his hard-on against John’s ass, and it seems completely inevitable that he is hard, not strange at all, and that’s a relief too. Rodney’s not going to be awkward about it. Maybe they can do this.

The weird kind-of-hug turns into Rodney steadying him against the console and pulling his shirt up and over his head, John flinching at every brush of Rodney's fingers against his chest. When Rodney gets John's shirt off, he shoves John between the shoulderblades down over the console and says, "Take your weight," and John takes it, grateful beyond words. Then Rodney whispers, "God," and drops a quick, messy kiss onto the small of his back. The surprise of wet heat and the scratch of stubble jolts a shock of pleasure into John, and he swears out loud, caught unawares.

"Sorry," Rodney mutters, muffled against the skin of John’s lower back, then he starts to unclip the thigh holster, moving quickly, but it feels like he's taking every opportunity to grope John’s leg as he goes. He runs his hands up the insides of John’s legs up to the empty crotch of his shoved-down pants, then tugs off the holster and slides John’s pants down all the way, helps John step out of them. He licks the back of John’s right knee, and presses his mouth against it.

John chokes out, "Jesus," and lurches against the console. Then Rodney’s gone for a moment, up and across the room, and John has a few seconds of blind, vertigo-inducing fear before he’s back again, there behind him, and he’s opening the cap of something.

"Has anyone ever done this for you before?" he’s saying, and before John can work out what he means, _fuck_ , oh _fuck_ , Rodney’s slick finger brushes over his asshole, and he really is going to do it.

*

"No," John says, practically hyperventilating but obeying as Rodney nudges his legs slightly further apart, bent over the console like the worst military porn cliché.

"Okay," Rodney says. Oh, god, he's got to get this under control. He’s going to get this over with, then get out of here and break things. "This might hurt a bit, but it’ll ease up in a minute. Let me know when I reach your prostate."

He smears more lotion over his finger and pushes the tip into John’s ass, and John yelps and lurches forward. He’s tense and hot and tight, but there’s nothing Rodney can do about that, and he keeps pressing in, bracing against the counter with his other hand for more control, until his finger is in John's ass up to the knuckle.

"That’s – that’s good, that works, yeah," John gasps. Rodney twists his finger slowly, and watches the perfect arch of John’s body in response. He’s a mechanic.

"I know what I’m doing."

John breathes out heavily, almost a laugh, but with a nasty edge. "Yeah."

"Okay, we'll try this," Rodney says, trying to concentrate on his responses, find the right angle and depth and speed, make John come before one of them goes insane.

"You can," John says, through gasps for breath, turning his head a little so Rodney can see his face, frustration emblazoned across it, "do what you were doing before."

"What?"

"Stuff, you know."

"You want me to kiss you?" Rodney hears his voice go high.

"Whatever, just - come on," John says, in that irritable, nasal whine that’s the least sexy thing about him – or maybe the most, Rodney sometimes can’t decide - "come on, McKay, help me out, here -"

And Rodney – Rodney _hates_ him, how fucking unconcerned he is, how much he doesn’t need Rodney, except when he does, and then after that’s done, and Rodney's saved the city or destroyed the Wraith or stopped Sheppard dying again, Sheppard goes back to his quarters and it’s like the whole thing never happened. And every time, Sheppard takes a little bit more from him, until Rodney is this _thing_ who’s killed Wraith and killed people and killed his friends and co-workers, nearly killed himself, and Sheppard doesn’t give any of it back. He’s like a, like a vampire, like a _Wraith_ , Rodney thinks, hysterical.  
And he thinks: somehow, Rodney could do all of that and still keep it together, but this time, when he’s fingerfucked John Sheppard over a console, naked and writhing and so gorgeous Rodney almost can’t stand it but still utterly, utterly unavailable, Rodney’s not going to be able to do it. He’s not going to have anything left.

" _Rodney_ ," John whines again.

" _Okay_ ," Rodney snaps, and slides another finger in, and deeper, getting a heartfelt groan from John. He has to step back a little; John knows he’s hard, but he doesn’t have to know that Rodney’s leaking a damp spot onto his pants. John makes a frustrated little noise at that, and pushes back against Rodney’s fingers, like he’s trying to get closer to Rodney’s body again. He can’t get far, though. Rodney tries to think of a place to kiss him that won’t involve Rodney going completely insane, but he’s got all of John in front of him, and he can’t see anywhere.

*

John feels like he's about to explode, just burn himself out to nothing, when Rodney makes an urgent noise in his throat and is there again, thank god, pressed up against him all the way down, then latches his mouth onto the back of John’s neck and sucks, the wet heat shooting straight to John’s cock, and then things go through crazy to something John doesn’t even have a word for. Rodney’s kissing his shoulders and carding his fingers through the hair on John’s belly and rubbing up over John’s chest, scraping his fingernails over one nipple, then the other, fast and everything at once.

"Rodney," John gasps, and feels Rodney nodding frantically against his skin and muttering, "yes, yes, yes, wait." Then Rodney’s tugging him, sliding an arm around John’s side to hold him up and twisting John at the waist so he can kiss John’s mouth, kiss him and kiss him as the machine slowly strokes his cock, and by then John's so drunk on real, solid touch that he lets Rodney's tongue into his mouth and kisses him back without hesitating over the fact that this is a guy, _Rodney_. The stubble is weird, but Rodney's mouth is wet and insistent and hot, and the feel of his tongue stroking John's makes the impersonal stimulation of his cock a little more bearable, makes it easier to adjust to the strange, solid feel of something in his ass. It’s even better when Rodney pulls back, grabs the canteen, takes a swig and presses his mouth to John’s, lets the water trickle between their lips into John’s mouth. Then Rodney licks all the spilt liquid from the side of John’s chin, his throat, and John’s thigh muscles spasm uselessly. He lets his head fall back with a groan, and Rodney licks and bites at his throat and then at his shoulder, nosing at the back of his neck with a choked-off noise. It feels so fucking good that he almost feels like he _could_ come, some time in the future. He wonders if, somehow, he knew that this was what it would be like, when he finally opened that channel to call Rodney. It seems obvious, now, that Rodney would shove his tongue in John’s mouth and kiss him until he couldn’t breathe, utterly silent and panting hard, red in the face and looking about as freaked out as John’s ever seen him. That Rodney would be the one to lock the door.

The intensity of the oddly random bolts of heat that the twisting of Rodney's fingers spark up in John lessens as he loosens up, and pretty soon he’s desperate again. What the fuck is Rodney _doing_? He's not kissing John anymore, just doing some heavy breathing behind him, and it’s not _enough_ , the burning slide and the slight promise of pleasure at the end before he pulls back again, and John’s going out of his _mind_.

"McKay, for Christ's sake, just, whatever you want -"

Rodney freezes, and John growls through his teeth in frustration.

"Wait, wait, how did this become about what I wanted?" Rodney squawks, and John can't fucking believe this, he's freaking out _now_? Then he slides his fingers out of John, and the irrational, indignant protest that flashes through John's body makes the world sharpen around him.

"Come on, what the fuck is your problem?"

"No! No, I will not! You’re not going to – I _can’t_ , John, I _can’t_!" For a few heartbeats there's only the sound of their breathing, then Rodney says, low and hard and, shit, _angry_ , where did that come from? "What do _you_ want?"

*

They played their worldbuilding game together until Elizabeth stopped them, and Sheppard found other ways to kill time; Sheppard won't be touched, but leans close when he needs Rodney’s heart to beat faster, Rodney’s blood to circulate faster to reach his brain to fire his neurons to make him _think_. It took two years before Rodney realized it was calculated, the way Sheppard uses his body like another weapon to get what he wants: the tilt of his head and shift of his hips, the way he looks up from under his eyelashes and smiles. It took another year before he began to hope that Sheppard just _does_ it, unintentionally and unconsciously, like he lights up rooms when he walks into them, a genetic advantage he's had for so long he doesn't know when he's using it. To hope, because he does it to Rodney, too. Like a friend uses another friend. So long, Rodney.

*

"Come on," Rodney says behind him, rough and muffled. "What do you want?"

John snorts, because, what the hell? "World peace."

Rodney's hand tightens on his shoulder. "Shut _up_. Talk."

"Can't do both, McKay."

"I swear to god," Rodney hisses, suddenly close behind John and shoving a hand between his legs to – _motherfucker_ , run a light, light, tracing finger under John’s balls, and John grunts and strains back, but Rodney holds him right where he is. "Don’t push me, Sheppard, because I am on the _edge_ here, and I want to fuck you so much I think I’m going to die, and, and if I want to there is _nothing_ you can do to stop me, and I am really not comfortable with the fact that that has even occurred to me."

John suddenly can’t breathe, can’t even remember what it’s like.

Then Rodney freezes behind him and says, "What did you say?"

*

John’s voice is completely unrecognizable, barely there. He’s varying between quiet, shallow breaths, then a noisy break and a gasp when he can’t hold it anymore. He'd jolted like he'd been electrocuted, and Rodney's mind is racing with the new data, firing in all directions, forming connections.

"Didn’t. Say anything."

"You did. You said, 'please'." Rodney knows he’s right, and his teeth are chattering.

John grunts and pushes back against his hand, but Rodney ignores him. "Yeah?" John says, "You think so?"

"I’m going to fuck you."

"Don’t think s-nngh, oh, oh fuck, _McKay_ , come back, put your goddamn hand back there or I swear I’ll kill you."

"Sorry, I didn’t quite hear," Rodney says, stripping his shirt over his head then starting on his pants, not stopping, not stopping, because that would mean giving his mind time to catch up. "Was that a yes?"

"I’ll," John gasps, his whole spine going rigid again as the console lights flash calmly between his hands and static licks at his cock, a keen escaping before he slurs, "I’ll, god, Jesus,"

Rodney pauses, splays his hand across John’s bare back, scrapes his thumbnail along the scar on John’s shoulderblade. He remembers the person who gave John that. He thinks Teyla killed the guy, but he’s not really sure. Rodney’s pretty sure it wasn’t him. He can feel John’s heart thumping against his palm, John’s whole body humming, ringing like a bell. He feels drunk, drunk on skin and touching it. Rodney tugs off his boxers and tosses them to the side, then spreads both his hands over John’s back again, strokes around to his sides then rubs up and down his ribs. John leans back into the touch, as far as he can, shuddering all over, all his muscles taut. It’s amazing, really.

"Say yes."

"You," John slumps forward against the console again as the cycle ends, gasping silently, sweat pouring off him. "You fucking bitch."

"Nope, wrong answer."

Rodney’s disturbed at how good this feels. He has no idea what he’s doing, but he thinks he’s winning. The air around them is hot and thick with what’s going to happen, now, and it feels like the few seconds before a supercollider tells him what he wants to know.

"If you’re not man enough to -" John breaks off with a groan again as the console begins another cycle, and Rodney cups his ass, squeezes it to feel the rock-hard tension in the muscles under the flesh. John slurs something under his breath, incoherent and filthy-sounding.

"That insult is so inappropriate to this situation."

"Fuck you."

"Well, hm, let’s see, you could, but – oh, wait, your dick’s stuck in an ancient sperm-bank. But then, you could have tried _some time in the last three years_. That's what this is about, isn't it?"

John's voice goes dangerously quiet, and it makes Rodney shiver, apprehension and rage and delight at being in control jolting through him. "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about."

"Tell me what you want me to do, or I’m just going to stand here and stare at you. Believe me, I’ve had plenty of practice, it’s no hardship. And don’t pretend you didn’t know that."

"I -" John writhes over the console, then suddenly makes a noise that’s pure frustration, somewhere between a growl and a scream, and slams his fist down onto the console, and Rodney doesn’t even flinch.

"I don’t care," Rodney says, glad that John can’t see him – it’s so much easier to lie when John’s only got his voice to go on, and he’s angry enough to make it convincing anyway. "I don’t care, I don’t care, yell all you want, I don’t need to do anything, I can go back to my quarters right now and jerk off. Look! Leaving!"

"Don’t you fucking dare."

"Oh, you think I won’t? Or I could call Carson. Wouldn’t that be the _responsible_ thing to do?"

" _Don’t_."

"You know what I think?" Rodney says, his heart racing at a hundred miles an hour, he’s right he’s right he’s right, " I think you finally got tired of chickening out on me, didn’t you? I’m right, aren’t I? I think you could turn that thing off."

"Do you think I haven’t been _trying_?" John yells hoarsely. He whips one of his arms around to try and grab Rodney, but Rodney steps back easily. It’s startlingly easy to be reasonable. Rodney’s almost frightened at himself, at the way something mean and crawling inside him is enjoying the way John’s hurting, wants him to say to John, see? _This is what it’s like to want you_. But he’s always known he was petty.

"Oh, I'm sure you have, but that doesn't mean you really want it. Atlantis has a tendency to give you what you want."

"What the fuck is your problem?" John spits out, tripping over the words. He twists to stare over his shoulder at Rodney, panting, and Rodney's heart stops at the ripped-up look on his face. John's face is wet, his eyes wide and blown and unseeing, and Rodney’s never seen him like this, never.

"Oh, am I not playing along with your sordid little rape fantasy? I'm sorry, did you want me to fuck you and say you asked for it? Just say yes, it’s as easy as that. Say, 'Yes, Rodney, please take advantage of my situation, in fact it was my plan from the start to be compelled to have sex with you.'"

It's like maybe after all this time there’s only so much hysteria they have between them, because now Rodney's calm, meditation-calm, everything suddenly quiet in his head. John twists to the side, panting, looking off into the corner of the room, not at Rodney, and his voice goes low and desperate. "You want to. You want to fuck me. I make you so mad, don’t I? You hate me. So come on, I’m right here."

*

"I," Rodney says, his voice sounding slow and echoey, or maybe that’s just in John’s head, "I don’t hate you. You know that."

"So," John gasps, he can’t _think_ , his whole body’s burning where Rodney isn’t touching him and he feels like he’s about to have a stroke, and he doesn’t – Rodney doesn't understand, Jesus _fuck_ \- " _Do it_."

"Say yes."

*

Then, finally, finally, John just… snaps. His spine arches into a curve as his head drops forward, and he babbles hoarsely into the console, " _Yes_! Yes, yes, okay, yes, please, _please_ , god, Rodney -"

The rush is enough to make Rodney dizzy for a second, then he starts to fumble at the bottle of lotion again, trying to hold back for just a few more seconds so his stupid shaking fingers can find the little tube. So much for calm. He tries one last time, just to verify results.

"You want me to fuck you?"

"Yeah," John groans, "yeah, yeah, now, come on."

Rodney doesn't know how he isn't going to come the instant he's inside John, but he's already lining himself up and pushing slowly into that tight heat, and John's dropping down onto his elbows and gulping deep, shuddering breaths and moaning. Oh, it's - it's almost too much, too intense; John gasps, "Wait -"

And, "I love you," Rodney suddenly hears himself saying, "I love you, I’m in love with you, I -"

"Yeah," John breathes, barely above a whisper. "Yeah, I _know_ , Rodney, do you think I don’t know that, I’m _sorry_ -"

"You use it," Rodney says, "You use me, John, it’s the one thing I’ve ever – I can be a good person, it makes me want to be a good person, and you _use_ it -"

"Rodney. Christ," John says, voice cracking, "Can we - not do this now?"

Rodney knows he should be finding it difficult to concentrate, seeing he's flush up against John Sheppard, naked and sweating and so unbelievably tight around him, just as he's fantasized for years, but somehow all of that is focusing Rodney's concentration like a laser beam, so powerful that he's shaking.

"Oh, we're doing this now. I think now is an excellent time."

John takes a few fast, hitching breaths, and then says, "I do what I have to do. The city’s more important than you or me." His voice is twisted and hoarse, unrecognisable. Rodney wonders if that's the way John always sounds when he's telling the truth.

"You're telling _me_ that? They could pay me in solar systems and it wouldn’t be enough for what I do, and you know it."

John flexes around him viciously, and Rodney bites back a moan.

"So, what, you want a piece of my ass with your salary?"

"I want you to stop - doing what you do," Rodney blurts out, lost. "I want you to _smile_ at me, I want you to love me _back_ -"

"Rodney -"

"I know, I _know_."

In sheer desperation, Rodney moves, pulls out a little before thrusting hilt-deep into John again, and John shudders and chokes off a sound. Rodney does it again, and again, adjusts his stance until he finds the angle that makes John moan the loudest, and fucks him. John's pinioned, can't move back against Rodney even a little, all he can do is take whatever Rodney gives him, and Rodney finds himself going at him harder, meaner, until John is having the breath driven out of him and being jolted forward with every thrust. Rodney wants to use him, hurt him, _mark_ him, make him never be able to pretend this didn't happen. He bites his lip hard and forces himself to slow down, because he's supposed to be helping John, after all. It's what he does. He puts his hands on John and strokes his sides and back, trying to encourage him along; he bites the arched back of his neck then soothes it with his tongue, and presses his forehead against John's burning skin.

" _Oh_ , yes, god, thank you -" John gasps suddenly, and he's coming, his whole body juddering with the force of it, tightening around Rodney and dragging him over the edge along with him, so hard that Rodney actually can't see for a second as he comes. Over John's hoarse groan, Rodney hears the chime of the console, and as John goes limp against him Rodney grabs him around the waist and pulls him backwards, but overestimates the ability of his wobbly legs to hold them up, and nearly loses his balance when John falls back easily.

*

It feels like coming all over again when Rodney pulls John back and out of the receptacle-thing, and John's cramping muscles can finally change position, loosen and stretch. He grabs his still-hard cock, desperate even though he's already come, and the human pressure of his fingers after an eternity of staticky suction is pretty much the best thing he's ever felt. Distantly, he feels Rodney co-ordinate their mutual collapse into a sticky, naked heap, and slide his dick out of John, which feels, yeah, pretty gross. The floor is blissfully cool, and John stretches out on it, limb by aching limb, staring up at the ceiling, feeling Rodney's chest rise and fall against John's shoulder. They lie there for a while.

"I really need a shower," says Rodney finally, in a terrible-sounding voice, and John's suddenly overwhelmed by a flood of - something, terror and relief and _connection_ , which he's as weak as a baby against, and his eyes sting as he flounders. Then it passes, and things are normal again, or as close as they ever are, but John's re-oriented, like the city's shifted underneath him, and he feels different. Older, maybe, and not just in the way he's probably getting arthritis and rheumatism just lying here, although that too.

"We're going to talk about this," Rodney says.

John's whole body hurts, he can hardly feel his feet, he’ll probably never want to use his dick ever again, but there’s a quiet, hushing sound in his head, and he feels like he’s been scoured out and left clean and empty.

He says, "Okay," and thinks maybe he means it.

"Come on," Rodney says, hauling himself up with a grunt, "We've got to get you into a hot bath, or you won't be able to walk for a week."

That sounds like a really good idea - brilliant, in fact, maybe the best fucking idea Rodney's ever had - but John can't quite seem to move yet.

"You do hate me sometimes," he says, staring up at the way the lights from the console play subtly across the ceiling, seeing Rodney moving around in his peripheral vision.

"I - yes, okay, sometimes."

"But not all the time, right?"

It seems like the most important question in the world, so that John's throat almost closes up around it, and Rodney can't normally tell that stuff unless you hit him over the head with it, but this new thing between them - which isn't really new, of course not, but it feels raw, like healing skin - has maybe changed that too, because he flops down beside John with a sigh. He helps John sit upright and gently tugs his t-shirt down over his head, holds it as John pulls his arms through the sleeves obediently, then pulls John back against his chest and puffs out a sigh into his hair.

"No," he says. "Not all the time."

**End**


End file.
